The Gruesome Gynecologist
by brandisnoot
Summary: There's a murderer in London, and it is up to Sherlock Holmes to find them before they kill again. There's just one little problem. This murderer is smart and leaves very little evidence for even Sherlock to go on. He needs help, and it comes from a very rare and unlikely place. This is a prequel to the BBC series.
1. Prologue: A Ghastly Discovery

Prologue: A Ghastly Discovery

A chorus of heels click-clacked on the pavement. Giggles echoed through the streets, and three young women stumbled their way to the last stop for the night.

"No, no!," the tall blonde in the tight red dress screeched. "That's not what was going on!"

"Oh sure. He bought you a drink, you accepted. Did you expect him to just leave you alone?" a shorter girl with the bobbed haircut laughed.

"Seriously, Diana!" a pair of hot pink lips slurred.

Diana threw up her hands. "Alright! Fine! My fault! Mea culpa!"

"Do you think he really thought he had a chance?" the shorter girl giggled.

Diana rolled her eyes, "He did seem rather stupid."

The three girls continued down the sidewalk. They were close to Diana's flat. Just a couple more blocks from it. London was quiet, somewhat sleepy to the girls. Of course, they were all drunk and sleepy themselves.

"Diana, do you have chocolate? I've been having cravings for it lately," the hot pink lips called out to her friend.

Diana turned, walking backwards as she answered. "You don't like chocolate. Found yourself in the family way, have you?" She laughed. As she started to turn, she lost her balance. Diana waited for her friend to start laughing at her, but their laughter never followed. Looking up at them, she found them with their jaws hanging open and a look of horror covering their faces. Diana followed their gazes. A scream tore itself from her throat.


	2. Chapter 1: Irregular Patterns

**Sorry for the long wait for the actual first chapter. I've been busy at work. Plus, I was trying to write something I could be proud of. This is a little short, but once I get into the groove of the story, you might be praying for short chapters. **

**I'd like to thank everyone for reading the prologue. A special thanks goes to kykyxstandler for reviewing, favoriting, and following the story. I'd also like to thank 3rd4th9th10th for adding the story as a favorite and following. You two are awesome!**

* * *

Chapter One: Irregular Patterns

A mangled body lay in front of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Four women now. Four women had been found in similar states. Unrecognizable faces; not a drop of blood on their clothing. That is if they were even wearing clothing when they were found. This particular victim was wearing clothing, and the only bit of skin showing was where the murderer signed his name. JACK was etched into the skin above the pelvis. Where the name was changed from victim to victim. Nothing about this case was normal. The only thing that stayed the same was whatever was above the name was always destroyed.

"Sir! Sir, we can't...we can't let you through!"

Lestrade turned to see a tall dark haired man arguing with one of the policemen. He rushed over to the tape. "Let him through. He's with me."

The policeman gave the taller man in front of him one last glance over before lifting the tape. With a smirk, the man ducked under the tape. "Where is it?"

"She, Sherlock. _It _is a _she_," Lestrade corrected.

"She then," he rolled his eyes. "Where is she?"

"Over here," Lestrade nodded towards the body. "I'll need whatever you can get from thsi one."

Sherlock stopped just in front of the woman on the ground. One of the investigators stood next to him but began gagging at the sight. "Well that's professional," Sherlock muttered as he stooped down.

"This is just damned odd," Lestrade said.

"Shh!" Sherlock shushed. "I need absolute silence."

Lestrade nodded. "Alright, everyone! Step back and let him work." He shooed the crowd of investigators away, turning to Sherlock. "Five minutes."

Sherlock clicked his tongue as he began gathering information. He could only go on what was in front of him. Judging by the unmarred skin, she had to have been between the ages of twenty and twenty-six; possibly twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Her clothes showed she worked some high-paying job, though she hadn't been to work for a day or two. There was no blood around the body. Killed elsewhere, but what killed her? Was it the acid that had been poured over the upper part of her body? The numerous deep scalpel incisions? No. Upon closer inspection, it was the cut to her throat. Her throat had been slit; held almost severed. Slipping a pair of groves on his hands, he lifted hers. Fingertips removed completely but only after being burned. The woman had been completely scalped. Her skull cap cleaned of any blood. Her open mouth revealed all of her teeth missing. All of the damage done after the victim's death it seemed. The murderer was quite thorough. Then his attention turned to the name on her skin. Feminine, though hard to give a definitive answer since it was done with a scalpel. Icy blue eyes lingered over her skirt before lifting it carefully. What he found was quite interesting. Different from the others indeed.

"That's five," Lestrade interrupted. "Tell me."

"Your killer hates women. Particularly mothers. Mummy issues obviously," Sherlock said. "However, this one was neither. She was on the birth control patch, and you'll find she has all of her reproductive system. She's been dead for two, maybe three days. Her skin color tells us that, but she's only been here a total of three hours. The murderer is smart, clever enough to make it seem like she just fell out of the sky or sat here. As far as an identity or a point in the right direction, I'm afraid most of it has been erased. Give me a copy of your missing person reports and I should be able to give you at least three...two. I should be able to give you two possibilities, but it is still the proverbial needle in the haystack. Look for something in the descriptions about a tattoo. Faded. A cross. Right above her vagina."

Lestrade's hand moved furiously as he took notes but paused at Sherlock's last work. "I didn't see any..."

"It's part of the signature. Part of the A. The killer probably thought it would take care of it. Get fid of it. For the untrained eye, it did," Sherlock mused.

"But for Sherlock Holmes..." Lestrade trailed off.

"Exactly," Sherlock smiled.

* * *

The incessant buzzing of the phone on the table kept drawing Sherlock from his thoughts, and every time he would ignore the call from his brother. Mycroft didn't give up, though. Not even a minute would pass before the phone would start to vibrate again. Most people would simply turn their phone off, but Sherlock knew for certain Lestrade would be calling for Sherlock's assistance. Whatever Mycroft wanted would have to wait, and Sherlock's phone would have to remain on. The phone stopped vibrating, and Sherlock returned to the pictures in front of him. A collage of crime scene photos littered the table of his flat. The four victims were displayed at every angle. The police kept missing something; something important.

"The telephone was invented for a reason."

Sherlock's back stiffened. "As was the lock, but unfortunately, they've both failed." The wooden swivel chair creaked as he turned to face his older brother. "Go away, Mycroft. I'm very busy."

"I can see that." Mycroft entered the room further without invitation. He raised a photograph from the table to look at it. "Looking at naked women is one thing, Sherlock, but when they're dead..."

"This is for my case," Sherlock tersely corrected.

"Not anymore." Mycroft placed the picture on the table. "It's too much."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning his back to his brother. "Let me guess. You have something I can focus on. National importance. The usual nonsense."

"Wrong. I have a bit of a personal matter I need you to attend to." Mycroft watched his brother's expression, which changed very a little.

"Personal? Diet gone awry?" Sherlock mocked.

"No. Blackmail to be precise," Mycroft set his briefcase on top of the table, opening it quickly and extracting a piece of paper. He handed it to Sherlock.

Taking it, Sherlock let his eyes wander over the text. "Pay them."

"I really would rather not," Mycroft told him.

"As I stated before, I am very busy. There is a serial killer out there, and he may already have his next victim. It is imperative I solve this," Sherlock insisted.

"To save a life or put another feather in your hat?" Mycroft asked.

"You know the answer to that," Sherlock answered.

Mycroft nodded. "Indeed I do. Are you going to help me?"

"It's your secretary. Fire her," Sherlock told his brother. "There. Your finances and life are both saved. Now get out."

* * *

A pair of green eyes watched as the last woman in the office made her escape. The redhead pulled her collar up to protect her from the harshness of the cold. In exactly one month, the redhead would be back to pick up another prescription for her birth control. It would be her last.

**_xxxxxx_**

**I hope you all enjoyed that! Review, favorite, and follow! Your input is very welcome and encouraged!**


	3. Chapter 2: The Package

**Once again, I am terribly sorry for the long wait of this chapter. I've literally written three or four opening paragraphs to this chapter, and none of them sounded worthy of Sherlock. I finally wrote one that I thought was good and ended up writing a full chapter. I would like to thank everyone for reading. I truly appreciate it. It means so much to me that people are reading and liking the story thus far. I would like to thank FranceGamble-too, 13, xEvelinax, and kykyxstandler especially.**

* * *

As Lestrade stated earlier in the month, the Jack case was "damned odd." There were many things that made it such: the very smart serial killer, the inconsistency in pre and post mortem injuries, and the timeline of when the murders occurred. The first three women all died within two weeks of one another. The fourth died three weeks after the third. With no fifth body, the police were starting to believe Jack had given up his life of murdering. Sherlock, on the other hand, was not as convinced. Fourteen days passed by without another body, but that certainly did not mean Jack was finished. In all likelihood, it meant Jack was waiting to be forgotten. He wanted the police and the media to forget him so he could come back with something much larger. Because of the lack of Jack's activity, the police moved on to other cases and Sherlock went back to being bored with everything.

Since Mycroft's visit, no inquiries for his services came in. No one shadowed his doorway. No one emailed. No one called, texted, or smoke signaled they needed his aid. Sherlock hated boredom more than anything in the world. There was nothing worse than being bored. Sure he busied himself with experiments, routine trips to the St. Bart's morgue, and the occasional hypothetical murder. They only kept him occupied for a short period of time. Then it was back to Jack. Such an intriguing and infuriating case kept Sherlock on his toes, kept him thinking. So many possibilities, variables, and dead ends gave him something to do. The police may not have been worrying about the Jack case too much but Sherlock never stopped.

Currently, Sherlock sat slumped in a dusty old arm chair. His long body jutting out in front of him with his feet crossed on the floor. Another sigh eased its way out of his lips as he lazily turned his head to stare at the phone on the table beside him. Silent. Quiet. Still. He'd exhausted all avenues of mild entertainment days before. All he wanted was some real mental stimulation, and nothing provided that for him. Lestrade suggested crossword puzzles, but he solved those in a matter of seconds. Molly at the morgue suggested they go for a coffee; a proposal to which Sherlock quickly spat an excuse. Sherlock supposed he could check his site, put a little more onto it, but if his phone wasn't ringing, then his site certainly required no attention. Sherlock was at a standstill with himself so suffer her must. He hated to suffer at his own hands.

A knock on his door normally would have pulled him to his feet, but the melancholy of his boredom seemed to have overtaken him. Whoever it was would have to wait or come back when Sherlock could be assed to get out of his chair. The knock was insistent however. With another exasperated sigh, Sherlock lifted himself from his chair. He tightened his robe around himself as he walked over to the door. Reaching out for the doorknob, he put on an almost pathetic look in case it was someone trying to sell something. Ready to fake a cough or sniffle, he opened the door to find a deliver boy with a box in his hands.

"Special delivery for a Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the teenager said while holding a clipboard out.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the boy more than the box. Everything about the boy screamed part time job with a bad family background and suicidal tendencies.

The boy shrugged. "Dunno, sir. Not paid to ask questions. You Sherlock Holmes or not?"

"I am," Sherlock answered as he took the pen. He scribbled a barely legible signature to the paper, and then took the box. As the boy started to leave, Sherlock spoke up. "By the way, your parents' divorce isn't the end of the world. I suspect you'll end up quite happy with your father out of the picture." Then he disappeared into his flat.

Sherlock trusted nothing about packages with no return label. Actually, Sherlock trusted nothing about packages at all, especially since he hadn't ordered anything in quite some time. He set the box on the table in his kitchen, sitting himself in a chair. Bringing himself level with the package, he stared at it as if he might be able to see right through it. The box was new and wrapped perfectly in brown paper. His name on the label was written neatly, but his address was missing. Whoever sent it must have known him or paid the young delivery box extra to stop by. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock turned the box over. No postage markings but there was a deep red stain on the bottom of the box. Sherlock ran his finger along one of the seams, dipping the finger underneath the paper to tear it open. He pulled the box from the paper. On top of the box was a card with his name on it.

_Mr. Holmes,_

_I am sorry you have been burdened with trying to find me. I can only imagine how difficult it must be. I have left very few clues for you and the police. I am sorry for that. You see, I thought I was protecting myself and my victims at first. It would seem I was wrong. I bet their families are wondering what happened to them. I bet they want to know what happened to their daughters and why the police aren't doing more to find them. Because of this, I have decided to lend a hand. I do not have any children so I do not know what it is like to have a loved one missing. Please accept these traces of DNA as an apology to their families and to you personally. Find their mothers and tell them their babies aren't coming home._

_Sincerely,_

_Jack_

A thick eyebrow raised, and Sherlock slowly opened the box. Any other person would be to find a box full of fingers. Sherlock Holmes was not any other person. He did not flinch or heave. Instead, he calmly walked over to his phone to text Lestrade what he had been handed.

* * *

"Oh come on, Greg! You cannot believe someone just stopped off at his flat and handed him a box of fingers!" Sally Donovan practically yelled.

"You don't have to believe it, Sally, but I have to. How else could he have come across them?" Lestrade countered.

Sally started to open her mouth, but Sherlock butted in. "If you should like, I can give you a very accurate description of the boy and what he was wearing."

"That would very helpful," Lestrade nodded. "Sally, take Mr. Holmes into the next room and write down everything he says down to the tiniest detail. I'll take these to the lab to see if we can't get fingerprints."

The young woman narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. "C'mon, freak. Let's see what lie you can spin up."

Sherlock followed Sally out of the room, leaving Lestrade to stare into the box. His stomach churned at the sight, but if he was going to get anything done with them, he would have to ignore the urge to vomit into the bin next to him.

* * *

Jack checked the appointment schedule with a specific change in mind. Emerald eyes reflected the smile that spread on Jack's lips. In Jack's own slanted handwriting, Emily Drake was written for the following day. While not fully prepared for Emily's visit, Jack would have to rush home after work to ready the examination room. It needed to be clean if Emily was coming over. It needed to be clean so Emily wouldn't tell any of Jack's secrets.

* * *

Sherlock emerged from the small interrogation room with a smirk on his face. After an hour of telling everything he knew about the delivery boy, Sally was even more irritated with him. He didn't hate to admit irritating her was slightly amusing. Her ever evident impatience made him go even more into detail. She just needed a physical description. By the end of it, she knew more about the delivery boy than he probably knew about himself. The more she rolled her eyes, the more Sherlock gave.

"Good luck, Sally!" Sherlock called after her, fighting the urge to snicker.

"Piss off, freak!" she threw over her shoulder.

"You certainly have a way with women," Lestrade mused.

"Have you found anything about the fingers?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade took a sip of his coffee. "Not yet. I suspect it's going to take some time."

"Right. Well, I'm off. Text me when you know something," Sherlock nodded.

"You're not going to stick around. We've got some cases you could look at," Lestrade offered up.

"I've reviewed them all. They're fairly obvious," Sherlock shrugged. "I also stuck a note in all the files of who is the most likely culprit. Took me all of two minutes alone. As I said, text me when you know something."

He quickly exited the building. With the prospect of new information, exhilaration coursed through Sherlock. Who needed nicotine when a sense of elation had its way with them? Not that the feeling stopped him from pulling a pack from his coat pocket. Retrieving a cigarette, he lit it and took a long drag. He could hear his brother in the back of his mind, spewing some philosophical shit about smoking while he puffs on a cigar. His eyes instinctively rolled as he pulled his collar up and began walking home. Sherlock reached into his coat again, pulling out the card from Jack. Giving the fingers to Lestrade was enough to kick the investigation back up. The card would be his little project. He read over the note several times. Sherlock couldn't tell anything from the handwriting right off, but devoting a little more time to it might help. He started to read again until he felt another body run into his.

"Excuse you," the body mumbled.

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked taking in the American girl in front of him.

"You ran into me so excuse you," she repeated.

"Did you see me coming your way?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Wasn't paying attention."

"Neither was I so excuse you as well," he told her.

Her jaw clenched as she tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. "Whatever." She started to walk around him.

"What's your name?" he called after her.

She turned to look at him. "What's it matter?"

"Just curious," he shrugged, flicking cigarette ash onto the ground.

"Emily," she answered. "I'm going to be late for dinner with a friend so I should go." She pointed behind herself.

Sherlock nodded and turned to walk away, but she called after him. "I'm Sherlock," he answered turning back to her.

"Nice to randomly meet you," she smiled softly. "Sorry I bumped you." Then she left Sherlock to watch her walk away.

* * *

**And there you have it! The latest chapter of TGG. Tell me what you think! **


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